


Sugar, We're Goin' Down

by HeyMurphy



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Job, Drug Use, M/M, both of them are pretty high/drunk, just guys bein' dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29766624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy/pseuds/HeyMurphy
Summary: While trying to win the approval of the band and secure his place as new manager, Melmord gets in over his head during a night out and finds himself in the care of everyone's favorite lead guitarist.
Relationships: Skwisgaar Skwigelf/Melmord Fjordslorn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Sugar, We're Goin' Down

**Author's Note:**

> done for a smut prompt on tumblr :) thanks for indulging my interest in writing for this ship, my friend!
> 
> prompt lines were "tell me what you like" and "you don't have to be gentle with me, i don't break easily" (admittedly i changed these bit a tiny bit though, oops)
> 
> (also sorry not sorry for the FOB song title hahaha)

Melmord had partied with the best of them, or so he thought. He’d injected himself into more than a few heiress’ bachelorette parties over the years, smoked really great weed on a yacht owned by a sultan, even been to one of those crazy Eyes Wide Shut kinda deals hosted by a masked billionaire who’d made him sign so many NDAs he legally wasn’t even allowed to think about the dude (which was a shame, the lower half of his face had been gorgeous). 

But partying with Dethklok was a different beast. He’d never been exposed to this level of wealth and decadence before, and the boys could put shit away like they didn’t give a fuck whether they lived or died. They downed bottle after bottle of expensive alcohol, dropped acid, took molly. Coke. PCP. Heroin, for Christ’s sake. Meanwhile Melmord, who cared _very much_ about staying alive _thank you_ , was a weed man. Maybe a _little_ coke if offered, but nothing like what he’d been experiencing these past couple weeks. 

He needed the band to like him, though, if his plan was going to work. They had to think he was cool, capable of hanging. A better option than Offdensen. So he partook. A little at first, then a lot. And then before he knew it they’d taken him out to a strip club full of noise and lights and driving, pulsing rhythms that vibrated the ice in his glass and the fillings in his teeth. He stayed back to sit with Skwisgaar and Pickles, privately reeling and full of god knew what at that point. The guys had shoved so much shit at him. Drink this, snort that, let this dissolve under your tongue.

“Dood, Mel, y’feelin’ awright?”

Melmord smiled purely on instinct. “Yeah, man. What, why?”

“Yer, like, sweatin’ bullets. And yer all fidgety.”

“Am I?” Didn’t feel like he was moving. Skwisgaar touched his knee, though, and he realized he’d been bouncing it up and down. “Oh.”

“Here,” Pickles said, and he pulled a ziplock baggie from his jeans. “This’ll calm y’down.” Grabbing Melmord’s hand at the wrist, he pressed a single pill into his palm. Chalky and small. 

Skwisgaar spoke way too close to his ear. “Don’ts gives him dat, Pickle. He can’ts handles it.”

“What? It evens y’out. Takes the edge off. He’ll be partyin’ again in no time.”

Skwisgaar laughed and Melmord swore he felt something brush his earlobe as if the sound was a velvety, tangible thing. “You gonna kills dis guy. And dens we ams gonna be stucks with Charles.”

Pickles cleared his throat. “Oh, right. Sure would, uh...hate that. Yup.” He gave Melmord a nudge. “Go on, dood, knock that back fer me, wouldja?”

Melmord giggled and lifted his whiskey sour. Might as well. “See you on the other side, bro. _Salud_.” And he popped the pill and swallowed it down.

For a while, nothing happened. The club pounded on. Women came and went from the stage _and_ the booth. Hands ran through his hair, groped him through his rented suit. Bass still thudded through him. At some point they lost Pickles. Skwisgaar got the two of them more drinks.

He seemed to blink, that was all, and a rush of soft white warmth filled his head up like a goose down pillow. He might’ve said “woah” out loud. Wasn’t sure. His bones and muscles went limp and he lay down sideways in the booth and just breathed for a while as Skwisgaar peered down at him curiously. ‘Take the edge off’ was right. He felt smooth, round. And really, really good. 

Unit he really, really didn’t.

The happy floating feeling changed, became something churning and rolling, waves of hot and cold over his skin, and suddenly extreme nausea had him struggling to sit up. Skwisgaar helped him by the shoulders. “Pickle gives you too much.”

“Imma be…” Melmord stumbled to his feet and held up a finger, “jus’ a sec...”

He lumbered off somewhere. Hopefully to the bathroom. Women passed him with exposed breasts and concerned faces. Lights shone strangely in his eyes. Too many fucking colors. He took a hallway, then another hallway, and another, lost and shaking, and finally he grabbed a handle, any handle, and pushed himself in, hoping he’d found the right door.

Cool pink lights inside. He felt feverish and poorly assembled, like maybe parts were missing. He needed to throw up, but he didn’t want to. Instead he planted face-first on a hard leather sofa and closed his eyes. If he could sleep this off, just sleep for a little while without the guys finding him passed out like a nerd, ruining all his hard work…

He slept, and he dreamed of a deep, dark tunnel that rumbled with the approach of some distant beast, and other crazy shit, like red stars falling from the sky, a whale but in space, and his old boss from the salon, the hot one with the bellybutton tattoo, melting like he’d opened the Ark of the Covenant. What the fuck was in that pill...

Someone woke him suddenly, shaking the shit out of him, rocking him hard against the leather. Words were happening but Melmord couldn’t make them out. Couldn’t make his brain click back into place. He was still half in the dream, watching Barry’s skin slough off his skeleton, when he heard himself try to formulate words. “Wh...what? Huh?” 

He cracked open burning eyes to see long fair hair. Well, that was either Skwisgaar or the stripper Murderface had been trying to woo earlier in the night. 

“You’s alives.” Okay, that was definitely Skwisgaar. “Thank fucks.”

On shaking arms, Melmord pushed himself into a more upright position and attempted a laugh to save face. Judging from Skwisgaar’s expression, however, it wasn’t convincing. “Yeahhh...I’m alive, dude. Just, uh...busy gettin’ laid.” The lie was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Damn, he wished that didn’t happen so often. “Hahahh...pussy so good I had to grab a nap. You know how it is, my man. Bring it in, c’mon.” He lifted a weak hand for a high-five but Skwisgaar left him hanging. Aw, Skwisgaar _never_ left him hanging, what the hell.

“Pfft. You looks like shits. Like...somethings whats ams _worse_ den shits.”

Melmord retracted the high five. “Ouch, bro, my feelings…”

Skwisgaar cupped a hand under his jaw to hold his head steady. “Looks at me. Rights here ats my eyeballs.”

Despite the grip on him, Melmord thought he might topple right off the side of the sofa if he wasn’t careful. He tried to focus his eyes to meet Skwisgaar’s gaze but started seeing two of him. Two heads, four eyes, his whole face a Picasso-esque jumble of features that swam over blindingly pale skin. Melmord shook his head, which was a mistake. His brain battered the inside of his skull, bruised and swollen, and holy fucking _shit_ he’d never felt so terrible in his whole miserable goddamn life. He thought he might cry. Maybe he did.

Skwisgaar’s hand was soft, though. Softer than usual, but the drugs were probably skewing his perception. If he closed his eyes, he could take himself back to the last time he’d felt that softness, when that expert hand reached across the bed, over the sleeping woman between them, to give him a high five and to pat his chest in hard-won approval.

He kinda hated how proud that still made him, remembering how he’d kept up with the man the tabloids often called “the world’s fastest Lothario”. Older women ( _much_ older women) weren’t really his scene, but with Skwisgaar there taking charge everything had fallen so effortlessly into place. Limbs knew where to go, mouths pressed to just the right spots, and somehow, miraculously, balls hadn’t touched. Not even _Step Up 2: The Streets_ had choreography that tight.

“Eugh, ja,” Skwisgaar said, dragging Melmord from the memory of that warm bed back into this awful, awful present. “Pickle gots you all fuckeds up. I keeps tellings him, he ams de only ones whats who can tolerbates dat stuff. Comes on, should makes you drinks some waters. Cans you stands?”

“Mayyyybe.” The sofa lurched under him as Melmord groaned and tried to push himself to his feet. For about a second or two he kept his balance, but the ornate swirls in the rug came apart quickly like a magic eye poster. “Oooor not. Shit, _shit_ —” He shifted his weight in a panic, vision fuzzing in and out, and then Skwisgaar was there, practically cradling him to keep him from tumbling down.

“I thinks maybe you sits and I brings you waters.”

“That...yeah, that sounds good…”

Skwisgaar put him down on the leather couch again and adjusted him by the shoulders. “Stays sittings up. Ja, likes dat.”

Melmord didn’t notice him leave, didn’t hear the door or see the lights from the hallway pour in, just realized eventually that he was alone. His head buzzed and his tongue felt thick and dry. Deep bass from the club still throbbed through the walls and throbbed through him, too, and if he focused on the pulse for too long he felt nice and heavy...and kinda tingly.

“Drinks dis.”

A glass pressed to his lips. Melmord opened and drank down the sweet, cool water as if he’d been dying of thirst, choking halfway through and gasping wetly for breath. Skwisgaar rubbed his back and muttered something soothing in Swedish, or at least Melmord assumed it was Swedish. Man, Skwisgaar was being _so_ nice to him. What the hell was that all about. Not that he wasn’t appreciative, it was just...unexpected. The guys weren’t exactly the touchy-feely types.

“Th-thanks, dude,” Melmord coughed. “And hey, look...you don’t hafta, like, babysit me, y’know. Go have fun out there. Getcha some.”

Skwisgaar snorted. “Pfft, cans gets dat whenevers. But if I leaves you bys yourself, maybes you throws up and ass-fixi-takes likes Hendrix. Amn’ts very metals, you knows.”

Melmord laughed under his breath, weirdly touched. “True, that would suck…”

“So, ja,” Skwisgaar continued. His voice lowered into a more gentle tone and the hand on Melmord’s back lingered. “Don’ts minds takings cares of you.”

“Well…” Melmord went hot and thought he might’ve been blushing. Kinda humiliating, but whatever. “...thanks, man.”

Skwisgaar fed him the rest of the water in little sips and even wiped the drips from his chin once he finished. Melmord smiled blearily, eyeing that long blonde hair tinted pastel rose by the room’s lighting. Made sense why Skwisgaar tended to get all the ladies. He fucked with love and sincerity, like his partner was the only woman in the world, and right now Melmord had a similar feeling, like in this moment Skwisgaar cared for him and no one else. An intoxication of a different kind, but no less euphoric. Jesus, that was definitely the drugs. But he couldn’t shake it, and it kinda made him...happy. Really happy.

“How you feels?” Thin fingers brushed the shell of his ear as Skwisgaar slipped a stray lock of highlights back into place.

Melmord shuddered pleasantly. “Uh...dizzy. But…yeah, not as bad.”

“I cans gets you more waters.”

“I’m okay...”

“Somethings to eats?”

He couldn’t stop staring at those plush lips. “N-Nah, I just...uh...”

“Tells me. Anythings.”

His mind was full of fuzz and words failed him, and Skwisgaar was so beautiful and so _close_ that Melmord leaned in and just...kissed the guy. Wasn’t sure why, really. Felt good. Felt organic. Chased away the nausea and the pain in his head and gave him that nice throbbing bass feeling. Skwisgaar, surprisingly, kissed him right back. There wasn’t a woman between them this time. Only the two of them, both drunk and high to varying degrees, but both obviously into it even without a third party to blame it on. What a fucking development.

They kissed slowly, almost tenderly. _Romantically_ , even. And when they parted, Skwisgaar was still smiling, his eyes calm but sharp. “So _dat’s_ ams whats you wants, ah?”

The hand at Melmord’s back came to rest along the inseam of his slacks and his hips moved of their own volition, seeking out the touch. “Bro...”

“Ams all right. I cans takes cares of you likes dis.”

He thought to object on the grounds of professionalism. If all went according to plan, Skwisgaar would be his new boss before too much longer. But between all the drinking and the drugs and the strip club and the _multiple previous threesomes_ , he wasn’t sure he had a leg to stand on. Plus he just really, _really_ wanted to keep kissing him. So he did.

Skwisgaar advanced, assertive but not aggressive, easing Melmord down on the couch. Lips left his and explored along his rough jaw, across his throat, into his shirt collar. Fingers tugged at his belt buckle, working it open.

“Wait, hold up—”

Fingers stopped and waited, but Skwisgaar’s mouth returned to tease his neck.

“I…” Melmord swallowed. “I might be, like...y’know, too fucked up, so...if I can’t get it up, you don’t hafta—”

“Melm,” Skwisgaar said, laughing deep in his chest, “hates to breaks dis to you, but you’s been, ehh, _ups_ since I cames in.”

“Woah, wh-what?”

“Didn’ts wants to onsbarrass you, but...haha, ja.” 

Skwisgaar cupped him through his slacks, but the slight touch was enough to make Melmord squirm. Before he could embarrass himself further with a needy moan, Skwisgaar kissed him again, and this time the belt came loose and so did the button, and the zipper…

Skwisgaar had definitely seen his dick a few times by now, but it had never been, like, the main event. And they’d had something of an unspoken gentlemen’s agreement in bed: hands on the woman, not each other. They were just two friends there to make an old lady happy, nothing gay about it. Maybe this was the same sorta thing. Skwisgaar was just trying to help him feel better. And really, what was a quick handjob between bros? He’d watched tons of pornos like that.

The kiss broke again, though, and the next time Melmord felt those lips, they were around his cock. 

“ _Holy_ shit—”

The warmth left him immediately as Skwisgaar brought his head up. “Ams dis all rights?”

Melmord rose on his elbows a bit and the view made him forget how to breathe for a second. He was so hard he almost didn’t recognize himself, his erection jutting desperately from his open fly, and those masterful hands had him in a secure grip. He shivered and felt lightheaded. Or, well, _more_ lightheaded. 

“Yeah, I...I didn’t know you were gonna just, like, go for it, man, but...yeah, yeah, it’s all right.”

“Mm...goods.” 

Skwisgaar’s tongue danced around the stretch of his foreskin and he kissed the exposed head, and _god_ just that light, tickling contact alone made Melmord want to cum. _Bad_. Whatever shit he took had him skirting the edge already. 

“Now lays backs,” Skwisgaar said, his voice a lover’s sigh, “and tells me whats you likes.”

“I like _this_ , whatever it is…”

“Ja, I cans tells. You’s, ehh...very wets.”

“Really? Shit, sorry…”

“Don’ts has to apolgeseks. Relax.”

Melmord flopped back like he was told, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, and that hot, slick tongue pressed to the base of his cock and licked its way to the tip. He lifted his hips to follow the sensation, but Skwisgaar held him down briefly in a silent request for him to be still. 

The warmth returned, lips spreading over his sensitive head, tongue snaking under his foreskin. One hand stroked him agonizingly slow while the other held his balls and massaged with a skillful grace. A fluttery, fire-like feeling licked up his legs, crawling over his thighs, and pooled in his belly, and he realized he was hearing himself moan on every exhale. 

“Ohhh, yeahhh, like...like that. Just a little harder.” The hand around his length tightened just a smidge, but that was it. “C’mon, man, you...mm...you don’t hafta be all gentle with me…”

“Ja, I dos.”

When Skwisgaar began to carefully suck, Melmord bucked into his mouth before having to be patiently wrangled again. But it just felt so _good_. The heat building low in his stomach grew more intense, more immediate, spreading through him and tingling in his chest and over his scalp. He tightened all over. Fuck, was he really about to cum? So soon? 

His brain was quickly unraveling, his few meager thoughts focused solely on the reddening pleasure and Skwisgaar’s hot, meticulous mouth. He tried to form words, to warn the dude, but all he could manage were a few high-pitched wails before muscles clenched and the orgasm hit like a fucking freight train. His body tensed and went lax, again and again, the unknown cocktail in his veins prolonging the release until it took everything from him and left him drained and shaking on the sofa. 

He came down and thrummed in exhausted satisfaction, reveling in the first true moment of peace he’d experienced in days. Weeks, probably. Maybe months if he was being honest.

He didn’t look, but he felt Skwisgaar gingerly tuck his spent cock back into his slacks, zip him up, and fix his belt. What a guy. A real pal. “Yo, that was…” Language was still booting back up. “Yo…”

Skwisgaar laughed, licking his lips, and gave Melmord’s stomach an affectionate rub. “Hows you feels now?”

“Mmm...real good. Real _bien_. _Muy apreciado_ , my man.” Melmord stretched and enjoyed the attention, feeling rather like a contented housecat that got into the nip. “C’mere, lemme…” He yawned and shuddered with residual endorphins, suddenly overtaken by the need to sleep. “Lemme return...the favor…”

Skwisgaar’s voice vibrated against his ear. “Maybes laters. For nows, just rests.” 

Melmord didn’t need to be told twice. “Well if you’re sure...thanks, bro.”

They kissed again, lazy and comfortable, until that lean body nestled in beside him on the sofa and the post-orgasmic zen swallowed him up.

He slept. This time when he dreamed, the deep, dark tunnel had a light at the end, and he knew, just _knew_ , he was on the right track. Wouldn’t be long now.


End file.
